


First of All

by Chatika (salamanderssmile)



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, im of the opinion the firstborn IS the nameless king, mind u that i call the Firstborn 'Faraam' too, pardon me for any confusion i might've caused, so that's why the tag is there, there's not much to tag this with tbh it's pretty much just some talks and kissing, which is really just implied if u don't like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7374844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderssmile/pseuds/Chatika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Gwyn's Firstborn and his first knight were close friends, dear to one another. They loved each other, in many different ways, and it was only appropriate to know them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First of All

**Author's Note:**

> "Here is an insurmountable amount of garbage. It disgusts me as well. I apologize in advance."  
> Here I come to be the first person to ever post something for these two here. I am Sorry if my use of archaic pronouns is incorrect, I was not paid enough to learn archaic english as I learned english, do hmu to help me correct stuff if need be.
> 
> EDIT: this is outdated, sort of? it's been rewritten into Curiosity and Charm.

A feast for dinner as every night in Anor Londo. Even with the war against the dragons, such was the tradition of the Palace of Lord Gwyn. Even though they were terribly boring, in his Heir's opinion. Which was the reason he was outside, on one of the garden balconies, leaning against a railing. And to keep him company, as he wont to do, his ever faithful first knight.

“Lord Gwyn surely giveth...” the Knight's lips puckered in a repressed smile. “… _significant_ speeches.”

Faraam laughed, and so did Ornstein, and the Prince would deny his breath caught at that. “Father's speeches would fell dragons more effectively than lightning, were he to weaponize them.”

“Your Grace, that is slander against His Lordship.” Ornstein affirmed, mock serious and backlit by the lights of the hall in a way that made him charming, almost coy.

“It's only the truth, my Knight.” Faraam replied, letting silence fall over them.

Too long had they been friends for such a thing to be uncomfortable. Usually. Yet Faraam was restless, as were the thoughts in his head – thoughts that involved the man by his side. He would look at him, at the garden, at the stars and the moon, quietly stalling for something he didn't truly know what was. The god of war clenched and unclenched his fists in a rare show of anxiety, however brief, as his gaze met his Knight's own. After a moment marked by a single breath, Faraam opened his mouth to speak again, thoughts loosed without filter.

“If thou couldst be with me, wouldst thee, Ornstein?” His own abrupt honesty was almost enough to surprise him.

“Your Grace, I already am. I am thy Knight, and hope that I still count myself as thy friend.” Ornstein answered, earnest and polite and solemnly serious, as always.

“ _Prithee_ , thou know’st that is not what I truly meant.” Faraam said, somewhere between anxious and exasperated. Definitely impatient. “If thou and I were to be _together_. Wouldst thou desire that?”

The short and soft inhale was enough to tell Faraam that at least the  _ meaning _ had been received properly this time. But as the silence stretched on, he worried. Maybe it had been a bad idea to broach the subject.

“Your Grace, I-I...” Ornstein stuttered, his usual composure faltering with his speech, though his face remained almost impassive. “If thou allow’st it, I must take my leave. Immediately.”

With a weary sigh, the Prince waved an agreement, and turned back to the stars as the hurried footsteps behind him were drowned out by the distant noise of the hall. Even Faraam could admit that went badly. To himself. Were Gwynevere to ask, it went marvelously.

 

Weeks passed since that night until Faraam had the courage to ruminate on it again. They were back in the same spot, not for the first time. Their tradition as friends was far more important than one awkward untied thread hanging between them. In fact, it was as if Ornstein had all but forgotten about it, never bringing it up again, nor changing his behavior. Then again, dear Knight Ornstein was always terribly formal.

“Thou never answered’st.” Faraam said, breaking one of their many friendly silences.

“It was not something one simply answereth, Your Grace.” His Knight replied, quiet, knowing him too well to not understand him, not forgetting a single word he said.

“Truly? And here I thought a simple ‘yes’ or an equally simple ‘no’ to be all that was needed.” The Prince bit out the words, temperament as fiery as always. “If thou art to reject me, at least allow’st thou me my dignity.”

“It is… not so simple, Your Grace.” Ornstein started, eyes a fraction wider at the Heir’s last sentence. “I'm thy Knight. I cannot… It would not be... _right_ , Your Grace.”

“Why?” Faraam hissed, though with no hostility towards the man in front of him. “Why would it not be right? What maketh it so?”

“As I said, Your Grace, I'm thy Knight, and thou’rt...” Ornstein sighed, soft and heavy with words Faraam could hear without them being said: _the Prince of Sunlight, a god._ “… _thee_.”

Faraam pressed his lips together in a tight line, fists clenching and unclenching, as Ornstein looked away from him, seemingly accepting their predicament with quiet resignation. But the Prince knew him, and knew when he recited rules he didn't fully agree with; his faithful knight, duty always coming first in his head.

“So dost not answer as my Knight a question I do not ask as a Lord.” To Ornstein's relatively confused expression, he continued. “As simply Ornstein, wouldst thou desire to be with me? Just Faraam?”

“I… I-- Yes, of course; how could I not? But...” The Knight answered after a moment of hesitation. “Thou’rt not just _a_ Faraam, Your Grace, nor am I just _an_ Ornstein. Thou know’st that as well as I.”

Ornstein's gaze refused to meet his, watching the stars as if they could tell him some secret to the rules, a list of exceptions. He looked sad, pained, even. And it was terrible for Faraam to watch.

“Prithee.” The word made Ornstein's eyes snap to him, so rare it was to find its way out of Faraam's mouth without dripping with sarcasm. “As thou art mine, my Knight, let me be thine. If thou wilt.”

“Your Grace… Oh, _Faraam_ , I...” A whirlpool of emotions danced across Ornstein's face, changing so quickly the Heir could barely keep up. For once, he wished he had the social graces of his father and sisters.

And then he surged forward, wrapping both his arms around Faraam's neck, lips finding his in a surprisingly graceful movement. And were he god of something else, he'd have claimed it fate, how effortlessly their lips fit together. But he was not god of anything but war, and so he simply thought it fitting that a kiss from the man he trusted the most felt so perfect against his mouth.

They kissed, softly and fiercely at the same time, for neither a fleeting moment nor an eternity, and that made it all the better. Perfectly fitting, as if time itself had cradled the moment. And as they parted, to think and to breathe, Faraam noticed his hands were resting at the other's waist. His eyes opened after having closed of their own accord, his smile falling at the sight of Ornstein's lowered gaze. His arms were still around his neck, not too loose, and not too tight, but measured in their pressure.

“Dost thou regret it already?” Faraam asked, voice barely a hush.

“Oh,” he sighed, “thou ask’st much of me… and I am loathe to deny thee anything, as thou well know’st. And, oh, I am far too weak to deny myself this one thing that I want the most.”

The words were too somber, making Faraam squeeze his hands unconsciously around the Knight’s waist. The gasp he received in turn sent goosebumps down his spine, and the soft chuckle that followed eased one out of himself. Unbeknownst to him, the Knight thought himself so silly. For in the end, what _did_ it matter, when they cared for each other so. The Heir felt giddy as Ornstein lifted his chin to kiss him again. It was simple and satisfying, their breaths mingling in the moments they parted. He felt he could stay like that all night, trading kisses with his dear Knight in a dimly lit garden, enjoying the closeness because it was there to be had. But footsteps from the hall made them jump apart, nervously looking back. Faraam hated it, how they'd barely just started and already had to fear being found out.

Ornstein, always the very essence of propriety, bowed before him, requesting his leave. And Faraam, always the same impetuous man, granted it in annoyance - at the situation rather than the individual. Yet, before he left, Ornstein took his hand, laying a kiss on his knuckles.

“My Lord.” He murmured as he parted, back stiff straight as he walked to the hall.

And Faraam smiled.

 

Days passed, weeks, and the Heir felt much like teenager every time his Knight would take his hand, or sit by his side, or another such recently discovered behavior. Proper ways of showing affection that no one would suspect of. And out in the gardens and shadowy nooks of the Palace, they kissed – because they could, because they both _wanted_ – in addition to their normal talks. Ornstein would find even more excuses to escort him, now. And he'd always, _always_ escort him to his bedchambers, though he never entered them anymore, and would never even offer a parting kiss, cautious of others, to Faraam’s frustration.

No one, save perhaps for Gwyndolin, even noticed any change. For that, Faraam was thankful. However exasperated at the ridiculous conventions he found among nobility, he could not deny there would be consequences for not catering to them. He trusted his younger brother to keep the secret, even as his heart beat all the more forceful for there even being a secret to begin with. He yearned for nighttime, now, for the moments he could share with his dear knight. Faraam supposed he could understand, then, after so long, the romance so many associated with the darker hours.

Again in front of his rooms' doors, Knight Ornstein bowed, following the same subtle routine of kissing Faraam's fingers before leaving. Yet, as he stepped away, the Heir didn't let go of his hand, holding on lightly, asking for a moment longer.

“Shalt thou spend the night, today? For one single time.” He whispered, quiet enough that no one but the Knight would hear him.

“My Lord...” Ornstein sighed, the same sigh he always gave when he was resigned to something he didn't necessarily want. “I cannot.”

With that, he stepped away, hand easily slipping free of Faraam's grasp. His steps were particularly light and short, as if he didn't want to hear them himself.

“Prithee? Ornstein. I loathe having to miss thee ‘till dawn. For I do. Miss thee, that is. Every hour we are apart.” Faraam felt vulnerable, too open, hated wearing his heart on his sleeve. But he would, if it meant changing his Knight's mind regarding this, if it was the only way to show him how dear he was to Faraam.

And as the first time they kissed, there was a moment of silence, and the Heir was sure that if he could see Ornstein's face, he'd see the conflict of his thoughts etched on it. And then, suddenly, the Knight was turning back, walking so quickly and determined down the hall that Faraam's first instinct was to brace himself for the impact of a fist. But Ornstein stopped right in front of him, chest-to-chest.

“Before I change my mind, I must say this is a terrible idea.” The Knight mumbled, chuckle in his voice, and Faraam smiled, wide and happy, looping an arm around the other man's slimmer waist.

Looking down the corridor, he saw no one, so he opened the door to his chambers and stepped in, dragging Ornstein with him. The Knight slipped off his embrace, closing the door in a hurry, somehow managing to kick it shut quietly. For a moment, they stood apart, breaths coming heavy.

“Already changed’st thy mind?” Faraam asked, honestly asked. There was no pleasure to be had for him if the other didn’t want it as well.

“No.” Ornstein answered through gritted teeth. “I _should_ , but I have not. I do not think I can.”

_ But thou’rt still nervous_, Faraam didn't say, but he knew, could see it in the man's stiffer-than-normal posture, the way his eyes kept darting across the room. So he stepped closer, crowding the Knight to be the only thing in his focus. Their fingers brushed, entwining without any real grasp. 

“But thou dost wish for this, dost thou not, Ornstein?” He whispered, barely a breath of a sentence.

“ _Yes_. Yes, I _do_.” Ornstein's voice was rough, as if their mere proximity was affecting him. Maybe it was. The Knight looked into Faraam’s eyes with such sincerity and fire that the Prince’s knees felt weak for a moment.

“Then trust’st thou me, and dost stop waiting for something to go wrong.” Faraam said, more forcefully than his question had been, and Ornstein smiled, small and genuine and terribly fond.

“My faith is thine, always, Faraam.” The Knight replied, lifting his chin for a kiss from the Firstborn, who felt giddy at the simple sound of his name from that voice.

They both smiled into it, and happily filled the night with each other’s names.

 

The first ray of sunlight found Faraam wide awake, watching Ornstein skip about, dressing himself hurriedly. The night past, he had wanted to leave as soon as they were done, but Faraam held onto him in a wordless plea, and he complied. And right before sunrise, he startled awake so abruptly he woke the Heir as well, rolling off his chest and out of the bed in one swift movement, mumbling curses under his breath.

When the Knight was done, he walked over to the bed, falling to one knee to be at eye level with Faraam, still sprawled obscenely among the crumpled sheets.

“If thou allow’st me to leave, my Lord.” He said, soft smile on his lips that Faraam kissed, the Prince's hand coming around to rest on the back of his neck.

“If thou insist’st, Ornstein.”

“Unfortunately, I must, Faraam.” The smile was back, and his eyes avoided Faraam's as pink dusted his cheekbones. “But… I shall make haste to return.”

And with that, he stood and walked out. Faraam smiled at his back, even as his own stomach churned at how _unfair_ it was that the Knight had to leave at all. And even _then_ , a sigh that escaped his lungs, soft and – no doubt, if Gwynevere had to describe it – sweet. As the sun illuminated the room further, he could only think he wished it had never risen at all.


End file.
